


Tumblr ficlets 2015

by linguamortua



Series: Ficlet archives by calendar year [1]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Abusive Relationships, BDSM, Belts, Brock Rumlow Is Really Nasty, Choke Collars, Corporal Punishment, Dubious Consent, Dubious Morality, Fucking Machines, Gaslighting, Gen, HYDRA Trash Party, Hand Feeding, Humiliation, M/M, Military Kink, Power Dynamics, Public Humiliation, Sleepwalking, TPE, Tattoos, Total Power Exchange, Twink Brock Rumlow, Watersports, hot power top jack rollins
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-16
Updated: 2015-12-16
Packaged: 2018-05-07 03:33:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 23
Words: 14,988
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5441891
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/linguamortua/pseuds/linguamortua
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>All works under 1000 words and originally posted in my 'ficlets' tag on Tumblr in 2015.</p><p>Each individual ficlet is linked back to Tumblr in the chapter notes - if you like it, please consider reblogging and letting your followers know!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Ink

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Tumblr ficlets 2015 by linguamortua](https://archiveofourown.org/works/10744149) by [Saysly](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saysly/pseuds/Saysly)



> Originally posted [here](http://lingua-mortua.tumblr.com/post/123100721908/i-started-my-current-work-in-progress-off-one-way).

‘It’s a surprise,’ says Brock thickly, clutching the front of Jack’s shirt to keep himself upright. They’re pushed into the doorway of Jack’s motel room. Brock’s slurring his words, wretchedly drunk and sweating. His hair’s flattened against his forehead and he smells like whiskey and Lucky Strikes and his godawful, acrid body spray. He’s handsy when he’s drunk, tactile and affectionate. Every other sentence out of his mouth is about sex; he’s impossible, pushy and demanding and filthy. He doesn’t drink often, so when he does he makes it count.

Jack wants to rip his clothes off with his teeth and lick the sweat off the smooth muscles of his neck.

‘Get in here,’ Jack tells him, casting a glance right and left. He won’t have Brock blow five years of secrecy in a moment of stupidity. Brock hustles him backwards into the room, grabs at his hips and pulls them close. Jack kisses him messily, left hand on Brock’s elbow, right arm around his neck. Brock rubs up against him without pretense, opens his mouth wide and wet. Jack’s got the presence of mind to stretch out a long arm and close the door before Brock shoves at him, crowds him backwards onto the bed and crawls up his body.

‘Fuck,’ Brock breathes as he straddles Jack’s hips, ‘you’re so hard.’ Jack props himself up on one elbow and draws Brock closer, noses under his shirt at the hard muscles of his belly.

‘That’s for you,’ he says, letting Brock paw at his short-cropped hair, his face, the back of his neck with his rough, eager hands. ‘So what’s the surprise?’

‘Here,’ Brock says, fumbling open his pants. Jack laughs into his sternum.

‘Right,’ he says knowingly, helping peel down Brock’s jeans.

‘Look,’ Brock says insistently, and guides Jack’s gaze with two fingers on his chin. Just under Brock’s right hipbone in shiny, swelling cursive:  _Jack_. It’s finely done, jet-black and neat and curving with the lean muscle of Brock’s body. Slick with Vaseline and sweat: his name, indelible. Jack gives an inarticulate moan and—

‘You’re such a fucking idiot,’ he stammers out, suddenly breathless, ‘beautiful fucking idiot.’ He grabs Brock’s ass, a hard, round handful in each palm, and draws him in close. He licks across the fresh ink hard and Brock jerks and groans. On a whim, he bites down. Above him, Brock gives a half-sob and moans his name. There’s a brief flurry of snatching hands and tugging off clothes, and then Jack has Brock spread out beneath him and with fingers and teeth and tongue he sets about making new marks across Brock’s skin.  _You are mine, you are mine, you are mine_ , he thinks, and under him all Brock can say is  _yes yes yes._


	2. Training Day

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally posted [here](http://lingua-mortua.tumblr.com/post/123593864208/training-day).

Jack stopped dead in the middle of the doorway and shucked his rucksack off his shoulder. He looked Brock up and down appraisingly.

‘Well, now,’ he said slowly. ‘Aren’t  _you_  something?’

‘Like it?’ Brock was standing at parade rest in his old gear, camo shirt and pants and big tan boots properly cleaned and laced. His pants were tucked carefully into his boots; he’d have passed muster with flying colours, a good army boy. His grin was boyish, infectious. ‘It was in one of the storage boxes.’

‘All these boxes to unpack,’ said Jack, gesturing to the pile against the dining room wall, ‘and you decide to play dress-up?’

‘Variety is the spice of life,’ Brock retorted haughtily. ‘I’m taking a break, c’mon. Humour me.’

‘All right,’ said Jack, agreeable as always. He sat in his armchair, stretching his long legs out and crossing them at the ankle. He arched up his hips to pull his battered smokes out of his back pocket. ‘What’s this for, then,’ he asked Brock, drawing a circle around his lover with the end of a cigarette, ‘a lap dance?’

‘Hey!’ Brock said, ruffling up like an indignant cat. ‘I technically outrank you.’

‘Not how it works,’ chuckled Jack. ‘Military don’t outrank civilians.’

‘I outrank you at work,’ argued Brock.

‘We’re not  _at_ work.’

‘We’re on call this weekend,’ Brock hedged. He was still standing at parade rest, hands loosely held together behind his back.

‘ _You_  moved in with  _me_ ,’ countered Jack, lighting his cigarette and settling back into the armchair to enjoy it. ‘My house, my rules.’

‘Fuck you!’ Brock said, his neat stance dissolving and a smile starting to break through his indignation.

‘Lap dance,’ Jack repeated, grinning. ‘Impress me.’

‘I can’t dance.’

‘Can’t, or  _won’t_ ,’ asked Jack, all sly and knowing. He heaved himself to his feet, cracked his back with his left knuckles against his spine.

‘What if it’s both?’ Brock said, with a defiant little tilt of his head.

‘Well,  _Sergeant_ Rumlow,’ Jack said, cupping Brock’s chin and gently blowing cigarette smoke in his face. ‘You can shut your smart mouth—’ he grabbed Brock by the back of the shirt, ‘—get on the floor—’ he guided Brock down to the carpet, ‘—and give me twenty.’

Twenty push-ups wasn’t much for a man as fit as Brock, even with Jack’s heavy boot resting between his shoulders. But that was okay – he was going to need to save his strength for later.


	3. For Brawlite

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally posted [here](http://lingua-mortua.tumblr.com/post/123700617118/brawlite-today-has-been-a-dumb).

It wasn’t so much a knocking as a persistent, uneven scratching, which explained why it took Jack a while to rouse from his deep, 3am sleep. At first he thought it was just someone passing in the corridor; STRIKE team quarters weren’t exactly palatial and some of the bigger guys were practically as wide as the hallway. Then it happened again, a dry scrape at his door. No reason to be alarmed, not here. Jack swung his legs out of bed and leaned over to unlock the door. Rumlow stood outside, shirtless and in navy blue boxers. There was something off about his stance. He hinged a little at the waist, his shoulders rounded, and stared right through Jack.

‘Rumlow?’ His commander didn’t respond. Jack snapped his fingers in front of Rumlow’s vacant face. This was weird; as long as he’d known the guy, he’d never been lost for words. Always had a smart answer for everything. He didn’t smell of alcohol, just cheap deodorant and night sweat. He obviously hadn’t been in a fight. His good-looking face was unmarred, no bruises, no blood. Then Rumlow let out a tiny snore of an exhale. ‘Sleepwalking?  _Seriously_?’ Jack took a look out into the empty hallway and, with a hand on each of Rumlow’s shoulders, steered him back to his double-size room at the end of the hall. Like a goddamn babysitter. For a baby with a nursery full of empty beer bottles, hair products and bad porn mags.

That was the first time.

The second time was three weeks later. When Rumlow sleep-walked his way to Jack’s door, Jack took one look and sighed. One arm over Rumlow’s shoulders, he walked them down the hall. This time, when he tried Rumlow’s door, it had locked behind him. Typical. Fucking government security features - more trouble than they were worth.

‘All right, princess,’ he muttered, and guided Rumlow back to his own room by the arm. When his knees hit the bed, Rumlow folded bonelessly onto the mattress and pulled the covers over himself. Jack slid in after him, too sleepy to care much what it looked like.

The next morning, he opened his eyes before his alarm to see Rumlow’s face an inch from his own.

‘Huh,’ said Jack, ‘you’re up.’ Rumlow pushed himself up on one elbow and eyed Jack.

‘How drunk  _was_ I last night?’

‘I think you were sleepwalking.’

‘To  _your_ bedroom?’ Brock snorted and shoved at Jack’s chest with one rough hand. The motion rolled them together. There was a long, awkward pause.

‘You don’t sound all that surprised to be here.’

‘Your morning wood’s digging into my hip,’ countered Rumlow, being a jerk as usual. Jack rolled his eyes, grabbed his own dick.

‘Fine, I’ll take care of it.’ Jack was going to call his bluff – and why shouldn’t he, Rumlow coming to his room at all hours and then being a fucking jerk about it? Rumlow just lay there, grinning with very white teeth, as Jack brought himself off efficiently and easily. He looked Rumlow in the eye as he came in his hand, and when Rumlow left for the showers, he was obviously hard in his boxers. That’d show him.

The third time Rumlow sleepwalked his way to Jack’s door, Jack just shrugged and hauled Rumlow in by the wrist. If that was the way it was going to be, there was no use wasting time about it.

‘Wake up, asshole,’ he said, slapping Rumlow’s face probably harder than he needed to.

‘Wha’ we doin’?’ Rumlow slurred, New York strong in his half-asleep voice.

‘Fucking,’ Jack said, as sarcastic as he could be at nearly four in the morning.

‘Okay,’ yawned Rumlow, clumsily climbing out of his boxers with his eyes still closed. ‘Too tired to top, though. You do it.’

Well, Jack thought to himself through a sleepy haze, it technically qualified as an order from a superior officer. He shrugged, shucked his own pyjama pants, and pulled Rumlow down into the bed with him.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally posted [here](http://lingua-mortua.tumblr.com/post/124303885973/i-was-struggling-to-write-one-of-the-many-things).

It’s red and gold. Of  _course_ it’s red and gold. It’s terribly futuristic, to Steve’s eyes. Tony made it, so it goes without saying that it’s sleek and wears its engineering lightly. A peculiar machine, it is, with a low, rounded engine and a long shaft, mounted upon the end of which is a—

‘—is that a… prosthetic iron… dick?’ Steve asks, very slowly.

Tony laughs in a way that comes close to a giggle, scrunching up his face.

‘It’s a fucking machine,’ he explains. Steve stares at him.

‘I assume that’s self-explanatory,’ Steve says.

‘And it’s not really iron,’ Tony continues, ‘it’s actually a gold titanium alloy.’

‘Right, naturally, what else would it be made of,’ says Steve absently, taking a long walk around the contraption. He measures the length of the dildo with his hand, runs a thumb down its smooth side.

‘Well,’ Tony says, launching himself off into a speech, ‘there are a number of materials which would—’

‘Tony,’ Steve interrupts, ‘exactly  _why_ would you—’

‘For fun! And because I was bored last weekend. And, potentially for profit, although you’d have to compromise on materials or it’d get pricey for the consumer.’ Tony pauses. ‘And the AI, I’m still working out the kinks so it’s not exactly ready for your average end-user.’

‘Are… are we going to use it?’ Steve asks tentatively. Tony smiles at him brightly, radiantly.

‘You’re always saying you want more sex,’ he says. ‘And, you know, I’m obviously a man of many talents but keeping up with you is a tall order. Therefore—’ he says the last word with a grandiose air and a flourish of one arm towards the fucking machine.

‘Oh,’ Steve says, blushing a little. ‘Oh. When?’

‘Whenever you like,’ says Tony generously. ‘It’s ready to go when you are. Which is always,’ he finishes with a leer.

‘I’ll go and shower.’ Steve leaves, a little trot in his step. It’s not how he pictured his Wednesday afternoon going, but he’s fascinated and aroused in equal measure by Tony latest scheme, as he is by most of Tony’s bright ideas.

He’s back in half an hour, scrubbed pink and clean and changed into soft sweatpants and a tank top for easy removal. Tony is on his hands and knees on the floor. He’s got a grease mark down one side of his face and the gold panel on the side of the machine is propped up on a chair next to him.

‘I thought it was ready to go?’

‘In a manner of speaking,’ Tony replies. ‘I mean, it’s just a small tweak. Have a seat, put your feet up, play chess with JARVIS, I’ll be quick.’ Two games of chess and a brief nap later, the machine is definitely not ready to go. Steve’s no genius twenty-first century engineer, but there are an awful lot of scarlet-and-gold piece littered across the floor.

‘Are you going to be finished any time soon?’ Steve asks, trying to keep the plaintive note out of his voice.

‘Oh,’ Tony says vaguely with his head inside the machine’s cover, ‘I can do this all day.’ He withdraws, leans over to check some other part and frowns. ‘I may  _have_ to do this all day.’

Steve does something which he has learned is called  _facepalming_. It seems appropriate. Here he is, shacked up with a rich, handsome, genius superhero boyfriend and not getting laid. Fortunately, his hand never breaks down or needs repairs. Plus, the future has internet porn. He stands, stretches, and takes a final, rueful look at Tony.

‘Don’t stay up all night,’ he says gently, and heads back to their bedroom.


	5. Breakfast

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally posted [here](http://lingua-mortua.tumblr.com/post/124310090223/fvckthisreality-do-not-i-mean-it-do-not).

‘Ugh.’ Brock presses his forehead into Jack’s broad back, nestling in between his shoulder blades. Everything hurts. His arms hang limp at his sides and he closes his eyes against the bright morning light. He wants coffee and a bacon sandwich; his stomach isn’t quite sure yet. Jack’s started the coffee up and he’s frying away, stacking crisp bacon on a plate. He cooks a lot – good, simple food with lots of salt and meat and decent beer. Sometimes, he even shares with Brock. Jack shifts and turns his head back to inspect Brock.

‘You’re god damn pathetic,’ he says, with amusement and a touch of scorn curling up his top lip. They’d both been out drinking, but Jack’s always seemed impervious to alcohol. It hardly seems fair.

‘Spare me, just for this morning,’ Brock moans, trying to hide from the sun in Jack’s shirt. Jack turns back to the pan, offloads more bacon and cracks in half a dozen eggs. Brock stomach finally makes up its mind and growls.

‘Toast,’ commands Jack, nudging Brock towards the toaster oven with an elbow. He doesn’t specify how much, so Brock blearily pokes eight slices under the heat.

‘Coffee?’ Brock offers. If he’s good, Jack’ll probably let him have coffee. Nobody likes to be around an under-caffeinated Brock, not even Jack.

‘Yeah.’ Brock pours out two big mugs, leaves them black. He’d like a splash of coffee creamer, actually, but he’s learned to adapt his tastes. He sets them on the table, sits down and rubs his hands over his face. The toaster oven pings. Jack piles a plate high and places it on the table. He stares at Brock with an eyebrow raised, daring him to say _you’re not seriously going to eat all that by yourself, are you_? Jack flicks his eyes downwards to the floor.

‘Down,’ he tells Brock, with a hint of impatience.

‘Oh,’ Brock bursts out before he can stop himself, and he takes his coffee mug and sits cross-legged by Jack’s side, resting his face on Jack’s thigh. He’s been good. He waits while Jack constructs himself a large sandwich, two eggs and lots of bacon bursting out the side. He waits while Jack takes a large bite, washes it down with coffee. He waits. When Jack finally reaches down with his own sandwich, he turns his face up like a begging dog to take a bite.

The bacon is crisp. There’s steak sauce right up to the edges of the toast, just how he likes it. He makes a whimpering sound of joy. Jack rests a hand on his head. His hangover starts to fade away.


	6. Asset Seven Six Seven Delta

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A few days ago, trash friend silicadaisy requested the following prompt: Rumlow gets brainwashed by SHIELD and sent to capture/kill Rollins AU or vice versa. That’s a lot to get into a sub-1000 word ficlet, but hey, I like a challenge. Note: this ficlet includes death, gore and references to past abuse. Read with caution.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally posted [here](http://lingua-mortua.tumblr.com/post/124718219303/asset-seven-six-seven-delta).

Brock’s out in the world again, burned and scarred but functional.  Hydra’s set him up in a tiny bed and breakfast and it pains him to admit thathe’s enjoying it. It’s quiet here. Mount Carroll, Illinois is small, rustic and surprisingly friendly to a man who looks like Brock does right now. He’s got a loose cover story – gas station explosion – but nobody presses him. People say hello in the street and it’s endearing, a sunny little break from grim reality. He’s easing up on the painkillers, feeling sharper, smarter, more like his old self. The knock-off serum, some steroid concoction, bubbles through his veins. Is he stronger? It’s hard to tell. There are allowances he has to make now with his new, damaged body. He’s alive, though, and that counts for a lot. He chuckles softly into his coffee and idly scans Lily Lou’s Diner, eyeballing the regulars.

‘Now’s a fine time to develop youthful zest for life, Brock,’ he tells himself quietly. Well, whatever; it can’t last long. He’s got two months here to get up to full capacity, and then it’s back to Hydra’s research and technical division for the next round of bone-aching, muscle-tearing, blood-searing serum. The last one before they re-purpose him into a one-man assault team. There’s talk of a suit. Maybe he’ll see if they can paint a skull on the helmet. ‘That’d be fucking badass,’ he mumbles into his coffee.

‘What’s that, honey?’ Lily asks, coming up with the coffee pot to refill his mug. Her twin sister, Lou, is in the kitchen; she waves at him through the hatch. They’re big, buxom redheads in late middle age, and they’ve made it their mission to feed him back to health. He could get used to it.

‘Nothing,’ he says, smiling awkwardly, lips tight against his teeth. He slurps down his second mug of coffee and lets the caffeine kick in. Then it’s up and out for his daily stroll down the main street before he heads back to the bed and breakfast to read and nap away the afternoon in the garden.

The toothless old guy at the hardware store is lounging outside in the sun; he touches his hat to Brock and calls him ‘son’. Near the crumbling façade of the antiques shop, the two women who run the clothing store pause to tell him how well he looks today, how bright-eyed and strong. A small boy hides warily behind his mother’s legs as Brock passes, but his mother, heavily-pregnant and sweating, apologies sweetly. By the time he pops open the garden gate, Tom Clancy novel tucked under his arm, he’s feeling mighty benevolent towards this provincial corner of the fucked-up world.

He’s really not prepared for the brawny arm that whips around his throat from behind. He yells and his book falls to the grass; he struggles, scar tissue tight, but the arm digs in and limits his breathing. He’s dizzy.

‘No point yelling,’ says a voice from behind him. ‘Nobody left alive to hear you.’

‘Jesus Christ,’ Brock chokes out, recognising the voice. ‘Jack?’ He tries to turn his head and catches the smell of leather, of sandalwood, of that awful hair gel. Everything comes rushing back to him and he panics momentarily, flailing one leg back to try to dump them both on the ground.

‘Shut up,’ Jack grits out in a monotone far removed from his usual vicious delight. Brock shudders.  _Shut up, you whiny little bitch. Shut the fuck up or I’ll choke you with my dick. You want a slap? You want to eat dinner off the floor tonight? Shut up and do as I say or you’ll regret it_.

Jack’s choking him in earnest, trying to make him pass out. Brock sags at the knees as if he’s losing consciousness, and Jack lets him fall to the ground. There’s rustling sound above him, the soft click of phone keys.

‘Rollins seven six seven delta. I have the target and will dispatch him indoors. I will fire the building before extraction.’ He doesn’t sound… right, Brock thinks. The way Jack’s reporting sounds robotic. Jack’s never been emotional, exactly, but if there’s one thing he’d always enjoyed it was making people suffer. It hits Brock suddenly and completely – Jack sounds like the Asset. In fact, he  _sounds_  like the Asset, but he’s using his  _SHIELD_ passcode.  _Who’re the bad guys now, SHIELD? Not above brainwashing our agents to your side, huh?_

Brock makes himself close his eyes, although he wants desperately to see where Jack is, to know what’s about to happen. He’s grabbed by the back of the shirt and one leg and hauled over Jack’s shoulders. Then they’re inside, trundling up the stairs. Jack’s grunting with each step and the sharp, metallic smell of fresh blood is in the air.  _Nobody left alive to hear you_.

He hits the floor hard and it jolts his eyes open. They’re in a bathroom. Jack’s back is turned; he’s rummaging in a black canvas bag. Brock scans the room for something, anything – finds it. Propped against the old metal radiator is a heavy wrench. When Jack turns towards him with a skinning knife in his hand, Brock whips out, snatches up the wrench and rolls to one side. His body screams at him but he manages to roll to one knee and propel himself forward with a yell. The impact of the wrench into Jack’s skull is sickening, satisfying. He’d forgotten what it was like to have his blood up, to be in a fight. He swings again and Jack roars like a beast savaged by a hunter, reaching out with his long arms to try to grab Brock. Another meaty, dull blow to the head and he’s down, his big, broad body slumping to the floor. The side of his skull’s caved in.

Brock spits.

‘Serves you right, motherfucker,’ he says, his voice hoarse. ‘Fifteen years. Fifteen fucking years. Serves you right.’


	7. Down

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So, brawlite reckoned that choke collars are just the thing for Messrs. Rollins and Rumlow. I concur.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally posted [here](http://lingua-mortua.tumblr.com/post/124790526558/so-brawlite-reckoned-that-choke-collars-are-just).

‘ _Down_ ,’ says Jack for the third time, and this time he’s pissed off, his usual tight control slipping. Brock grins up at him. He knows how obnoxious he’s being. He’s kneeling on their bedroom floor, sitting back on his heels. Jack wants him face-down but Brock’s making him work for it. It’s funny to annoy Jack, to rile him up. The freaky BDSM shit is okay, you know, it gets Brock off just fine, but Jack’s serious face never fails to crease Brock up with laughter and ruin the moment. They’ve not been doing it long. About six months back, Jack found some weird porn and showed Brock, flushing and husky-voiced as he explained what he wanted. Brock’s just good with getting dicked, and Jack knows how to do that. So he goes along with it. It’s all good. Still –

‘Make me,’ Brock says, smiling wider. Jack’s face darkens and he crouches down so their faces are almost level. Their AC unit’s busted, so Jack’s sweating a little and he smells good, musky and warm. He leans in to kiss Jack, nips at his lip, and then there’s a blinding flash of pain across his right cheek. Jack slaps him. Brock almost tips over onto the floor, narrowly catches himself.

‘Don’t tempt me,’ Jack says, voice steely and low. 

Brock works his jaw from side to side, cracks his neck. He’s got a safeword, hah, but what kind of fucking loser pussies out in the bedroom? Nah, he can take it, he can take whatever kinky stuff Jack throws at him. Jack grabs him by the scruff of the neck and shoves him onto the carpet. Brock laughs, feeling amped up, face stinging. ‘Ready to behave?’ Jack asks.

‘Am I ever?’ Brock cracks back. Nope, no he is not. Jack’s spanked him before, pulling him over his knee and laying into him. It just made Brock harder. He’s choked Brock from behind; Brock laughed through it, mostly, when he wasn’t biting his lips to stop himself begging for more. A slap in the face, that’s just got him riled up. Brock’d  _love_ to see what else Jack can bring.

Jack looks down at him and shrugs.

‘Fine,’ he says. ‘Fine. I got something that’ll shut you up.’

‘Tell me it’s your dick,’ Brock says, mock-simpering.

‘Remember your safeword?’

‘Like you could make me say it.’ Brock closes his eyes like he’s bored. Jack hooks open his nightstand drawer with a foot and rummages for a moment, ignoring Brock. He comes out with a tangle of metal attached to a short chain. There’s a leather loop at the end, like a fucked-up dog leash. Jack comes down onto the carpet and grabs at Brock’s hair with one hand. ‘Hey,’ protests Brock, ‘not the hair!’

‘Shut up,’ says Jack pleasantly, and fastens the metal collar around Brock’s neck. He runs two thick fingers under it, tugs experimentally to check the fit and then stands to admire the effect. ‘Yeah,’ he says, satisfied. ‘Yeah, I think I like that.’

‘Good luck with this little—  _uuuh_ ,’ Brock says, cut off suddenly by Jack pulling the leash so that a set of metal prongs dig into Brock’s throat. Brock’s eyes widen; he arches his back off the ground to try to relieve the pressure on his neck.

‘All right,’ says Jack, amused, and his voice is rich and warm, getting Brock hot and bothered. ‘There’s a good dog.’ Brock swallows, his throat convulsing. The collar’s a little looser now. ‘Up, then,’ Jack tells him. ‘Up on your knees, since that’s where you wanted to be.’ Carefully, so carefully, Brock gets to his knees. He gazes up at Jack, his muscular chest, the way his jeans are unzipped and hanging off his hips. His strong, sure hand on the leash. The other hand’s moving to his jeans; Jack shoves them down, pulls out his cock. ‘You want this?’ he asks.

‘Yeah,’ Brock says, immediately transfixed. His blood’s rushing; he can feel it pumping in this throat, his heart rattling in his chest.

‘Any backchat and I’ll tighten this up,’ Jack says, twitching the leash. ‘Any teeth and I’ll choke you out.’ Brock opens his mouth and stretches up to take Jack’s cock onto his tongue. He can feel Jack’s pulse beating, too. He moans a little. ‘There,’ Jack says, and now  _he’s_  laughing his deep chuckle. ‘I knew it. I knew I was onto something.’ Brock flicks his eyes up to look at Jack’s face. He furrows his brow quizzically. ‘All that attitude,’ Jack explains, running his left hand through Brock’s hair, messing it up, gripping it and guiding his cock in deeper. ‘All that bitching.’ Jack rolls his hips, pushing his cock right down Brock’s throat until he makes a wet choking sound. Jack groans. ‘Take it,’ he says.

Brock snuffles through his nose a bit, tries to adjust; Jack punishes him by tightening the collar so the prongs dig in again, just on the edge of pain. It makes Brock moan again despite himself, raw through his nose. Abruptly Jack’s panting, fucking his throat now. Brock’s swallowed Jack down all the way, so far he can barely breathe and he’s getting dizzy with it, so hard and so overheated that he might pass out, sweat running down his temples and back. Jack groans, tightens his grip in Brock’s hair and thrusts in one last time, dick jerking as he comes.

‘Fuck,’ Jack gasps out. ‘Fuck yeah, you’re good.’ He pulls out, wipes his dick in Brock’s hair with a grin. ‘See?’ he says. ‘See? I know what you want.’ He lets the collar loosen and Brock slumps forward, forearms resting on the edge of the bed.

‘Okay,’ he says, voice hoarse and wet. ‘But Jack…’ Brock feels himself start to grin again.

‘Yeah?’

‘Is that  _really_ the best you’ve got?’


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mathildia requested: Steve x Rumlow, crying. The latest in my ongoing string of attempts to make Mathildia so, so sad.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally posted [here](http://lingua-mortua.tumblr.com/post/125055050883/steve-x-rumlow-crying).

The problem is, Rumlow’s so likable. He’s easy-going, good at his job and handsome; quick to smile and crack a joke, with a cool head in a fight. He’s well respected and has earned that respect. He doesn’t leave a man behind. The first time Steve got the chance to talk to Rumlow properly, Rumlow made him cry with laughter with stories from his army days – so relatable, so cynical, like nothing had changed in seventy-some years. _God_ , Steve had thought,  _what a great guy._

To onlookers, to pretty much everyone, Rumlow  _was_  a great guy. Steve had wiped tears off his cheeks with the back of his hand and walked away feeling like he’d made a friend, a real one. It took a while for him to excavate the truth from underneath Rumlow’s thick facade of pretence and patter. Steve wondered in idle moments how many people over the years had managed to do the same. Not many, he reckons, because Brock Rumlow is a master of the art of bullshit.

Steve sees the way that Nat looks at him lately – fond, indulgent, glad that Steve’s found someone – and he wants to scream. Scream what, he’s not sure –  _help me_ , perhaps, or _you’re my friend, how can you not be seeing this_? But it’s not done to talk about one’s private life, is it? You don’t ask about folks’ private business, and you don’t bother your busy, normal friends with impossible queer supersoldier problems. He cheated death – he should be grateful to wake up every morning.

He doesn’t usually wake up next to Rumlow, so that something. Rumlow kicks him out, after.

After – after sending Steve upstairs with a perfunctory wave of his calloused hand. After making him strip, watching with a leer. After ordering him to the bed or the shower or the floor; after Rumlow’s hand hands and his cruel names and his sharp white teeth. After the punishing crack of his belt or his well-practiced fist or his spit trickling down Steve’s cheek. After  _you’re fucking worthless_  and  _are you trying here_  and  _why do I bother_ , after  _what’s the point of your superhero bullshit if you can’t even suck a dick right_?

Rumlow’s got a point, hasn’t he?  _Hey, Nat, I’m freakishly strong and my boyfriend restrains me with a belt. I’m a supersoldier and I come crawling when my subordinate snaps his fingers. I’m Captain America and a 40-something government operative owns me, body and soul._

Steve always takes his motorcycle over to Rumlow’s, to get back home afterwards. If anyone sees him, he can say his tears are from riding into the wind.


	9. Car Wash

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> libertinem/StarsGarters asked for 'Hydra Husbands, car wash gone wrong'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally posted [here](http://lingua-mortua.tumblr.com/post/125063436158/hydra-husbands-car-wash-gone-wrong).

‘I don’t want to talk about it,’ Brock says, stalking past Jack and into the house. His hair is utterly deflated, flat against his skull and dripping down the back of his neck. His thin white shirt clings to his chest and his jean rustle slick and wet as he walks. Steve follows him in, equally wet but covering a smile behind his hand. Jack peers into the car, takes in the sodden seats and the soapy puddles in the footwells.

‘You two really fucked up, huh?’ Jack observes, as the pair strip off in the master bedroom. He idly rolls a cigarette and smokes it slowly as he watches the show.

‘I guess I didn’t get the roof closed all the way,’ Steve says, flushed a little with laughter and with the way Jack’s eyeballing him. Jack jerks a thumb towards the bedroom door.

‘Out,’ he orders, and his gaze slides past Steve and onto Brock, who’s simmering with quiet rage and standing there in just his boxers. Jack’s amused; amused by Brock’s anger, his embarrassment, his ridiculous hairstyle ruined.

‘You don’t have to say anything,’ Brock grouses, drying himself off.

‘Don’t  _have_  to,’ shrugs Jack. He leans against the doorway, cigarette hanging loosely between his lips, and ogles Brock.

‘It wasn’t even me,’ Brock argues.

‘Uh huh,’ replies Jack. ‘You didn’t notice, though, so you’re a pair of dumb fucks.’ He pushes the door closed with his fingertips, blows out a thin plume of blue cigarette smoke.

‘What, you want me to agree with you?’ Brock spits, towelling his hair off. He’s glaring at Jack and his cigarette. Brock doesn’t smoke – he reckons it’ll make him look old. Bad for the skin, or some shit.

‘Nah,’ Jack tells him, watching Brock prickle up with anger, with powerlessness. ‘Don’t really care to hear anything you have to say most days.’ That’s not entirely true, but it’s a fiction designed to piss Brock off and it works, because he snorts explosively and puffs out his bare chest. He squares off to Jack, lifting his chin like the arrogant, mouthy little shit that he is. ‘C’mon then,’ Jack laughs down at him, crooking a finger. ‘C’mon.’ Brock tries to shove him in the chest with both hands; Jack catches him easily and flips him to the floor. His cigarette’s still hanging off his lower lip.

‘Fuck you,’ pants Brock. ‘Asshole.’

‘Uh huh,’ agrees Jack, and he puts one foot on Brock’s back and slowly unbuckles his belt.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mathildia asked for hydra husbands TPE. TPE, for those of you who don’t associate regularly with Mathildia, is short for Total Power Exchange. A hat-tip to trebeka/bekaylo here for her motorcycle enthusiast Jack.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally posted [here](http://lingua-mortua.tumblr.com/post/125069795298/hydra-husbands-tpe).

Every mission is made a success by dozens of decisions, both beforehand and in the moment. Time of drop, time of extraction, number of units, demolitions placement, sniper placement, triage or leave, sacrifice or salvage. Brock has been a STRIKE commander for eight years. His missions are almost always successful. He is decisive and quick, a superb strategist, a crack shot and a fair leader. To the victor the glory, but behind every master tactician stands an able second.

Jack’s his second.

At home, Brock doesn’t give the orders. He doesn’t need to. He becomes them: sit, down, wait, hold, touch, eat. He becomes good, yes, easy, boy, steady. His limited range of responses is not a limitation; far from it. It’s freedom.

Brock’s knees on the hard tile of the kitchen floor. His palms flat against the bedroom wall. His face pressed to the well-polished leather of Jack’s boot. Momentary discomfort is a small price to pay for the warm, floating bliss that follows. Brock’s been shot in the line of duty. He’s been stabbed and tased, he’s fallen into water and onto concrete. He’s run through fire and been singed by explosions. All he ever gets in return in a mediocre paycheck, a handful of scars and the guilt that comes of surviving – leading – an engagement that killed friends.

To be home – safe – to put everything else aside, is –

‘Stop thinking,’ Jack commands from his comfortable armchair. His dinner, a bowl of hearty beef chili with rice, is cupped in his left hand. Brock tries to stop, but he can’t. He can’t usually. Jack sighs, beckons him over. ‘Bring your dinner to me.’

Brock goes to Jack. He sits cross-legged by Jack’s chair, right thigh pressed up against Jack’s calf. He hands his bowl up, and Jack sets it aside. Brock’s barely touched it; he’s so restless tonight.

‘Unzip me,’ Jack tells him; he kneels and complies. ‘You can eat later.’ Brock hovers, waits for the order. ‘Put it in your mouth.’ Jack’s not hard yet, but Brock can make that happen. He bends his neck, takes Jack’s cock onto his tongue and sucks noisily, messily, wanting it. Jack clips him around the head and he gasps, tries to keep his teeth out of the way. ‘Did I tell you to suck me off? You just hold it there, boy. I’m busy.’ Brock kneels there, mouth full, while Jack eats. He drools a little; he can’t help it. His hands are loosely clasped behind his back. When Jack’s finished eating, he pushes Brock out the way with his foot and heads off to the garage to tinker with his latest bike.

The chili’s cold by the time Jack lets him eat. His spoon’s been taken away, so he laps like a dog. It tastes fantastic.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A lovely anonymous person requested a Rumlow/Rollins fic centred on watersports, desperation and humiliation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally posted [here](http://lingua-mortua.tumblr.com/post/125104363843/a-lovely-anonymous-person-requested-a).

‘Here,’ Jack said, abruptly appearing in front of Brock and handing him a water bottle. Brock took it automatically and squinted up at Jack’s impassive face.

'Thanks,’ said Brock, and went to tuck the canteen into the side of his rucksack.

'You should drink it now,’ said Jack, sounding for all the world like a solicitous SIC, casually looking out for the well-being of his superior officer. 'You always let yourself get dehydrated in the summer.’

Brock knew it wasn’t really a suggestion. He unscrewed the cap and started to gulp down the lukewarm water. Jack was up to something - he could feel it - but any attempt to evade him now would make the punishment worse later. Mission or no, Brock doesn’t get to ignore Jack’s little games. One time, Jack refused to let him come for a week.

So there he was, belted into a quinjet jump seat, tossing back water like it’s cheap beer at a ball game. He drank down the whole litre and a half. Whatever. Hydration’s never a bad thing, right?

Oh, he regretted it soon enough, though. They were staking out a run-down apartment building, waiting for some possibly-enhanced, aggressively political splinter group to show themselves. It was just past midnight and intel suggested they’d make their move under cover of darkness. Brock had a good view of the east and south sides of the building from his vantage point across the street. His men were deployed at high points around the crumbling apartment block; Jack was lying on the rooftop with him.

'Jesus,’ he said under his breath. 'I need to take a leak.’ They couldn’t move; any untoward activity could tip off the targets.

'It’ll have to wait,’ said Jack, muting his mic and reaching over to mute Brock’s too. In his voice was a hint of amusement.

'Oh my God,’ breathed Brock, 'You’re a fucking nightmare.’ Jack reached out and gave him a sly pinch on the soft skin over his ribs and Brock yelped. ‘Hey,’ he protested, ‘we got a job to do.’ He pulled out his night vision goggles and put them on, re-settling himself so as not to lie right on his belly.

They waited. Boredom was a part of the job. Within the hour, Brock was shifting uncomfortably; Jack’s good humour, by contrast, radiated off him. He was actually lying there smiling as he watched the front door of the building. Brock tried to hide his discomfort – Jack was fucking insufferable when he got like this, when he was intent on humiliating Brock at all costs. Brock didn’t want to give him the satisfaction. He tried to breathe slow and smooth, in through the nose, out through the mouth, tried to slip into that meditative sniper’s calm. It was hard coming. Just as the little night-time noises started to fade away and he had almost forgotten the pressure in his bladder, Jack leaned over.

‘How you doing?’ he asked, and ran his tongue over Brock’s earlobe. Brock let out a whimper and clamped his lips shut. Jack laughed softly. ‘That’s my boy,’ he said, voice low and pitched not to carry. Brock suddenly felt like everyone could hear, like everyone knew, the shame of the inevitable creeping across his skin.

‘Stop it,’ he said through his teeth, and Jack snickered and bumped their shoulders together. He could hold out, he thought. He  _could_. He just had to wait for the target, make sure they’re taken out and then he could find an alleyway somewhere. It had been an age, though, hours and hours. It was almost painful, the need to let go and piss, his stomach tight and aching. Jack could make him do it. Jack always followed through; Brock gritted his teeth, shifted his weight again.

Then there was the sudden, percussive sound of two shots, and a voice over the secure channel confirming the kill. Brock snapped his mic back on.

‘Good work, guys,’ he said, a little too abruptly. ‘Let’s get out of here. Mercer, Hopkins, you’re on clean-up. Harvill, sweep the north and west sides with Westfahl. Rollins and I will finish up over here. Rendezvous back at the jet. Keep a low profile.’ He made to stand, but Jack stopped him, throwing a thick, strong leg over his thighs.

‘Not so fast,’ Jack said, pulling Brock’s mic off and shoving it in his pocket. He leaned his weight on Brock, who couldn’t help but moan softly, rubbing half-hard against the ground. Jack’s body heat warmed him from knees to shoulders, his breath hot on Brock’s neck. ‘Come on,’ he said low and urgent. He ran two thick fingers up Brock’s hip and under his shirt, tickling his ribs and oh, oh no, Brock felt himself tipping over, losing control, pissing himself. God, he couldn’t stop; it soaked down his pants, into the jacket he’d been lying on, warm and wet and so, so much, too much to hide.

‘I hate you,’ he said weakly, elbowing Jack in the ribs. ‘Jesus. You’re a horror.’ Even as he said it, he half-wanted to unbuckle his belt, let Jack rub off between his ass cheeks right here. But Jack was standing, reaching a hand down for him, and Brock knew that the fun was only just beginning for Jack.

‘Long way back to the jet,’ Jack grinned, pulling his rucksack onto his broad shoulders. Brock stared at him helplessly, willing his erection away, and started walking.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally posted [here](http://lingua-mortua.tumblr.com/post/125190986463/ohthisismuchworse-brainboxy-hi-friends-just).

Jack’s disappeared again. He does that, slouches off to his workshop or the garage for hours, or gets on his bike and leaves for a day or two with no warning. His absence unbalances things. Brock gets short-tempered and vicious; Steve talks back, gives attitude, acts out. They bicker like children without Jack there, the summer heat getting to them both. By the afternoon they’ve become restless, wandering around to look for him.

They find him at the bottom of the garden, half-hidden in the little stand of trees. He’s lying in a hammock, a book open on his chest and his smokes and lighter on a nearby branch. He looks peaceful, stretched out in nothing but an old pair of running shorts. The trees sigh around him; bees make their heavy buzz. Jack’s breathing slow and deep, one rangy arm hanging down towards the grass. Brock and Steve look at each other and Steve inhales a little like he’s about to say something. Jack’s arm moves, and he points at Steve without looking.

‘You,’ he says, 'fuck off.’ He snaps his fingers at Brock. 'You, come here.’ Steve hesitates, hurt, then turns back to the house. Brock approaches a little warily. He didn’t know they had a hammock. Jack’s stretched out in it like a natural. Unlike Steve and Brock, Jack rarely goes to the gym. Most of his exercise comes through his endless projects, so he’s all functional strength, long limbs and lean muscle and scars. Brock wants to reach out and run his hands over that tanned, strong body.

Jack drops his book on the ground and holds out a hand. Brock tentatively reaches out, twines their fingers together. Jack reels him in.

'Get in,’ he says. It’s not easy getting into the hammock, but Jack braces it with one long leg on the ground and grabs Brock around the waist. Guides him down. Settles Brock’s body over his. Brock slides a leg between Jack’s thighs, tense. He’s ready for a pinch or a cigarette burn or a sharp bite. He carefully rests his cheek on Jack’s shoulder, waits for the catch.

Instead, Jack adjusts his aviators, cups a rough, warm hand around the nape of Brock’s neck and yawns.

'Gonna take a nap,’ he says, and with a push of his leg sets the hammock to swinging gently.


	13. Mexico

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes you lie down for a short nap with the cat, and you wake up compelled to write a short ficlet on your phone. Caveat lector - it’s highly fluffy, for a Hydra Husbands definition of fluffy. With thanks to iainkillsrobots for pointing out an accidental Britishism!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally posted [here](http://lingua-mortua.tumblr.com/post/125910110643/mexico).

‘Mexico,’ Jack said suddenly, as they lay in a sweaty, rumpled mess of sheets, breathing hard. Brock unpeeled his face from Jack’s arm.

‘What?’

‘Mexico. Is the answer to your question.’

‘The question that I asked you two fucking hours ago?’ Brock rolled over onto his elbow and grabbed his glass of water from the nightstand.

‘I was busy,’ said Jack; Brock smiled into the glass as he drank.

‘Okay, so why Mexico?’

‘Nice and warm, cheap, Spanish-speaking. Went there on vacation a couple of times. I like it.’

‘I don’t speak Spanish,’ Brock said with a touch of indignation. Brock considered anything inconvenient to him to be a personal insult.

‘Well,’ said Jack, running a consoling hand over the smooth muscles of Brock’s hip and thigh, ‘I didn’t realise you were inviting yourself along. That wasn’t the question.’

‘It was  _implied_.’ Prickly, prickly Brock. Jack patted his hip again.

‘Okay, ask me again.’

‘Fine. If you were ditching SHIELD and taking early retirement, where would you go?’

Jack stretched his arms over his head and hung his hands over the bed frame. He yawned, cracking his jaw. Fucking in the afternoon always made him dozy.

‘If I was ditching SHIELD,’ he said, grinning at the little frown Brock wore, ‘I’d sweep you up in my 1999 Ford F150 and drive us to scenic Guadalajara, where we could spend our days drinking cheap beer and making passionate love in a desert with only the armadillos to judge us.’ Brock made an anguished noise and thumped him in the chest with a half-balled fist.

‘You’re such a prick.’

‘I’m curious,’ said Jack, kicking the sheet off his sweaty feet. ‘Why are you - we - talking retirement?’

Brock looked away for a moment, picked at a hangnail. He cast a hooded glance at Jack. Then he rolled out of bed with his usual easy grace and padded across the floor. His jacket, hanging on the back of the bedroom door, had a folded envelope in the pocket.

‘Read it,’ said Brock, flipping it onto Jack’s chest. Jack stuck a thick thumb under the flap, and a sheet of paper slid out.

He read in silence for a minute then gave a long whistle.

‘Jesus,’ he said fervently. ‘You signed up. You actually fucking signed up.’

‘Yeah,’ said Brock, looking a little sick. ‘Then I saw the Asset.’ His skin looked greyish under his tan. Jack reached out, grabbed his hand and Brock didn’t resist like he usually would.

‘You don’t want out of SHIELD,’ Jack said, clarity coming to him. ‘You want out of Hydra.’

‘Option one, I die. Option two, I stay off their radar.’

Jack nodded slowly. He didn’t waste his breath asking obvious questions. Matters were coming to a head at Hydra. Mandatory DNA samples for Project Insight were on the horizon, any grunt in a uniform could see that. It had to be soon.

‘Right,’ he said, dropping the letter and sitting up. ‘Let me give this a minute’s thought.’ The look of intense gratitude on Brock’s face made Jack’s heart clench in his chest. Sentimental idiot.

‘You don’t have to—’ Jack silenced Brock with a hand over his mouth.

‘The first thing we need,’ he said, ‘is a couple of DNA samples that can’t be traced back to us. And then passports, cash, new truck. I know a guy might be able to delete some records for us.’ He rambled on, tugging Brock back down on the mattress with him. He’d work out the details, no problem - he’d spent most of his youth shuffling from town to town on the run to or from something.

By his side, Brock buried his face in the bedclothes with a sob of relief that Jack pretended not to hear.

 


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What would dubcon cuddles look like, mathildia posited yesterday in trashchat. I don’t know, maybe something like this? It’s totally not gay, if that’s what you’re thinking.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally posted [here](http://lingua-mortua.tumblr.com/post/126046633198/what-would-dubcon-cuddles-look-like-mathildia).

Brock hates being on his back like this, but even if he can sometimes best Jack on the mats, he sure as hell can’t shift the guy’s weight off him with no leverage. Jack’s forearms are pressed along Brock’s, pinning him. There’s no aggression in it. Jack just likes to get real close, likes to kiss and grind up on him, slow and heavy. When they do this, which happens infrequently enough that they’re clearly not an item, but fairly frequently because they’re normal red-blooded guys, Jack kind of has a method. He likes to roll around on the covers – it’s always a bed, with Jack – hands up shirts and necking like teenagers. Then he’ll lube up, get real personal. Nobody fucks anyone. That would be one hundred percent gay.

What they do is what they’re doing right now; rubbing off against each other, Brock trying to lift his hips up for more leverage and Jack holding him down, making him wait. Or Jack’ll blow him, wet and messy, and jerk himself off at the same time. Or they’ll jerk each other, panting into each other’s mouths and grabbing hair, hips, biceps, necks with their free hands. But today’s just Jack pouring lube over Brock’s dick and then bringing them both off with the hot, persistent friction of their cocks pressing together.

Brock likes a guy sometimes, he’s comfortable with that. It might as well be Jack, who’s a buddy and doesn’t fucking brag and takes good care of himself. Variety is the spice of life, right? It’s normal to want to change it up in bed. Jack’s a safe bet – not Brock’s style to go cruising the gay bars. Fucking gays, with all the obsession with muscles and the tights shirts and the  _hair_. That ain’t right, paying attention to yourself like a girl.

Jack presses his open mouth to Brock’s neck, right below his ear, and moans into his skin. Brock shudders and twitches and, with his limited range of motion, flexes his fingers into Jack’s and holds on for dear life. He manages to get one leg over Jack’s hip and grind up into him. Then Jack’s tongue is insistent between Brock’s lips and he opens his mouth for it. Jack kisses slow and deep, sucking at Brock’s lower lip and running the tip of his tongue around, soft and curious. He’s pretty fucking good at it – Brock wishes chicks would do this kind of shit, really get in there. Show some initiative. Fucking women, no attention to detail, real hard work, real demanding, like it’s Brock’s fucking job to do  _everything_.

The sudden rush of Jack’s hot spunk between their bodies, Jack’s long, deep moan, tips Brock over the edge. He struggles in Jack’s grip, holds his breath, waits for it, waits for it and— _oh_ , he feels his back arch as he comes, riding it out with little thrusts into Jack’s body.

‘Fuck,’ he says, weakly. He exhales in a long rush. Jack sighs with pleasure and releases Brock’s arms. He curls his right arm over Brock’s head, sliding the other one under the small of Brock’s back and tucking his face into the pillow over Brock’s shoulder. Brock lets his arms sink into the pillow. There’s always the cuddling after. He kicks out at Jack. ‘Move,’ he says, knowing it’s futile.

‘Comfortable,’ Jack tells him. Jack’s heartbeat pulses against Brock’s cheek. He’s way too fucking sweaty to be lying all over Brock like this. He smells like sweat, the good kind, and a generic hair gel. He’s  _heavy_.

‘Ugh,’ Brock complains. ‘This is totally gay.’ Jack just licks his ear and laughs at him.


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally posted [here](http://lingua-mortua.tumblr.com/post/127359416648/back-on-the-writing-horse-after-publishing-four).

It was Friday afternoon and the locker room had emptied out fast. With a long week of training behind them and nothing scheduled for a fortnight, nobody wanted to cut into valuable drinking time. Rumlow was as keen as the rest of them to get home, but being the boss came with more paperwork than he would ever enjoy. By the time he was ready to change into street clothes and sign out, the last handful of men were already trickling out. Brock pulled his jeans and shirt from his locker and threw them onto the bench behind him without looking.

When he closed the metal door and turned, Rollins was standing right behind him.

‘Christ,’ Brock swore, startled. He was barefooted and Rollins was in his boots, so there was almost a head of height between them.

‘So,’ said Rollins without preamble. ‘Just us in here tonight.’ He looked down at Brock with lazy, hooded eyes and rested one hand on the locker by Brock’s left shoulder. Brock knew that pose; he’d used it on drunk women plenty of times in bars. All he had to do was wait until the end of the night. Always some desperate bitch with a few drinks in her who’d come home with him without asking questions. He tried to turn away, but Rollins whipped out his other arm and slammed the heel of his hand into the locker by Brock’s waist. Brock didn’t have to look to know that Rollins had dented the metal: the man had a punch like a pile driver. Brock was blocked in by Rollins’ thick arms.

‘What the hell?’ Brock said, disgusted. He grabbed Rollins’ biceps in his hands and tried to shove him. Rollins just laughed.

‘Don’t recognise flirting when you see it, boss?’ Then Rollins kissed him, coming in from above and pressing his mouth down hard on Brock’s. The force of it knocked Brock’s head back against the locker door, made him grunt. He tried to fight, squirming and twisting in Rollins’ big hands, but his weight disadvantage showed and Rollins leaned hard on him, pressing his body up against the lockers and holding him there. Rollins was a firm, inescapable presence, warm and muscular and unlike any woman Brock’d ever touched, and yet his body betrayed him and began slowly but inevitably heating up. He flushed up his neck; his back prickled with sweat.

Brock wanted to refuse, wanted to keep fighting, but this was Rollins who’d always had his back, always been able to anticipate his orders before they were given, always fit him so damn well. Just as soon as Brock relaxed into the kiss, Rollins deepened it. His tongue flickered over Brock’s lower lip and Brock, helpless, opened his mouth and let it in, let it happen. Rollins tasted like fruit gum and cigarettes and animal warmth. Just like that, Brock was shamefully hard. He was pressing into the seam of his heavy pants, using it as leverage, wanting the friction.

Rollins broke off for a moment and worked his way up Brock’s jaw line to the soft, sensitive skin just under his ear. He brushed his warm lips over it and then sucked, gentle and insistent. ‘Oh, fuck,’ gasped Brock, high like some dumb barfly, and Rollins growled out his deep laugh into Brock’s neck. The noise brought Brock back to reality and he tried to push Rollins off him.

‘Knock it off,’ he said breathlessly, but his hands were oddly weak and his pulse was racing, blood rushing in his ears. ‘Just wait a—’ Rollins kissed his mouth again, hungrily this time, sucking at his lip, pressing his tongue inside greedily. One hand moved to the nape of Brock’s neck, then cupped the back of his head, and then Rollins’ fingernails were running over his scalp and Brock – oh God – found that he’d let a moan slip out. Rollins made a sound back, low in his throat, and rubbed up against Brock’s dick, grinding in slow circles.

It was good, so good, such a hot, rough pleasure and it tugged at him and demanded more, made him groan and kiss Rollins back and rub off on his thigh, desperate like a teenager. Rollins’ hands somehow ended up on Brock’s ass and squeezed, drew their bodies in tight, moved to the meat of his thigh and held him as if Rollins was about to lift him up and fuck him like a drunk chick in an alley, hard and precarious against a wall. And—oh—that mental image was all it took, it was enough – too much—and Brock panted into Rollins’ mouth and then came in his pants, jerking and shuddering his way through a guilty, grasping orgasm. He broke away and this time, Rollins let him.

Brock wiped his chin and stared up at Rollins with eyes that didn’t quite focus.

'Looks like you wanted it after all,’ said Rollins with a smirk. He was sweaty around his collar and hairline, a little flushed. He reached down and tugged at his pants, adjusting them over his hard on. Brock flicked his gaze down; Rollins caught him at it. 'Hey, boss,’ he said, with feigned casualness, 'ever sucked a cock before?’

'No,’ Brock said, very quietly, and he licked his swollen lips.


	16. Half Ripe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> From an anonymous prompter, asking: Steve Rogers/James Barnes + half-ripe peaches + summer rainstorms + pining/longing/desire + Margaret Atwood's "Late August": "The air is still / warm, flesh moves over / flesh, there is no // hurry."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally posted [here](http://lingua-mortua.tumblr.com/post/127763007998/steve-rogersjames-barnes-half-ripe-peaches).

The rain sheets down, silver and almost impenetrable – they can’t see much past two feet in front of them. Steve’s boots slide on the wet grass as they run towards a small grove of trees, just intermittently visible as a dark green mass in the middle distance. Steve’s given up on using his shield as an umbrella. It’s hooked onto its strap between his shoulder blades, gently tapping at his back as they make their mad dash for shelter.

‘Christ almighty,’ says Bucky as they reach the loose cover of the trees. He strips water from his hair, then his bare arms in turn. ‘Thought California was supposed to be sunny.’ He dumps his pack on the ground and leans his rifle against a tree. His coat’s balled up inside the rucksack – he took it off as soon as the warm rain started to fall – and now he pulls it out and hangs it loosely over his broad shoulders. Steve half expects to see him change his socks, like they used to – gotta take care of your feet. Steve’s trying to wriggle out of his wet, clammy gear, all squeaking leather and sodden, heavy fabric. He shucks his suit jacket off with a slick noise and drops it on the floor. His undershirt sticks to his skin, warm and wet and clinging.

‘When’s extrac – fifteen hundred?’ he asks, and Bucky nods. He’s fiddling with a tiny, compact GPS unit and doesn’t bother to look over.

‘Two hours yet,’ he says as the unit beeps. ‘Site’s only a mile northwest.’ He makes a little gesture off to his right with two fingers.

‘We might as well fuel up,’ Steve says, rummaging for water and electrolyte powder and snacks.

‘No need,’ says Bucky. ‘Look around, genius.’ Steve looks. They’re in an orchard. Peaches. They’re surrounded by trees laden with slowly-ripening fruit. Bucky reaches up and carelessly tugs one off the branch, splitting it with a deft flick of a knife. He hands Steve half.

‘This is someone’s orchard,’ Steve says, a touch censoriously even to his own ears. Bucky’s bringing that out in him, lately. He doesn’t take the fruit. ‘Perhaps someone’s livelihood.’ Bucky shrugs with his mouth full.

‘Nobody’ll miss half a dozen,’ he says, casually reaching up for another.

‘It’s the principle of the thing,’ Steve begins.

‘Ah, knock it off,’ Bucky tells him, bored already and settling in for a rest. He’s sitting against a tree with his lap half-full of fruit.

‘Man,’ Steve says, annoyed at Bucky’s abruptness, although not surprised – that’s how he is now. Bigger, stronger, faster. More task-oriented. Meaner. ‘Hydra really screwed up your priorities, huh?’ He wants to take it back immediately, but Bucky gives him a ghoulish grin and sends him over a peach with a lazy underhand toss. Steve returns fire with a protein bar.

‘Not priorities,’ Bucky says, like it’s obvious. ‘Perspective. People are getting shot in the goddamn head every day, and you want to bitch about fruit.’ He cuts up another peach and pulls out the stone with his teeth, precise and vicious. The muscles of his throat cord and Steve looks away, looks down at the half-peach in his hand. He takes a bite. It’s not fully ripe yet, still tart and a little hard.

‘They’re not even that good, as peaches go,’ he says. Bucky’s answering laugh is a savage bark.

‘There,’ he says, ‘let that salve your conscience, Rogers.’ He inspects the peaches in his lap, picking through them to find a good one.

They eat in silence for a while as the rain patters down around them. Bucky dissects his fruit without looking, cutting them into his left hand and flicking away stems and stones. He must have found a couple of ripe ones, because when Steve glances over at him there’s a line of juice disappearing under his jawline. Bucky doesn’t share. Steve eats his foil-wrapped rations and washes them down with warm water.

‘You’ve got—’ he begins, gesturing vaguely to his own face.

‘Be a pal,’ he says, and he draws out the last word in an obnoxiously Brooklyn imitation of Steve, because he can, because it’s annoying. He’s not forgotten the way Steve used to breathlessly wait for scraps of the old Bucky, when he first came back. His accent’s been stripped away but he can bring it back at will, just for fun. Steve stretches over Bucky’s pack, reaches for him, and runs his thumb up Bucky’s neck and chin as coolly as he can manage. Bucky raises an eyebrow and Steve retreats, face hot. He sticks his thumb in his mouth; he was right, it was a good, sweet peach. No wonder Bucky hadn’t wanted to share it.

Bucky barks his laugh again, apropos of nothing at all and picks up his pack. By the time Steve’s scrambled to his feet and put on his jacket, Bucky’s already started walking. ‘They’re too goddamn sweet usually, anyway,’ Bucky says over his shoulder, booting a windfall away.

 

 


	17. Two hundred follower celebration!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally posted [here](http://lingua-mortua.tumblr.com/post/128236815508/hey-two-hundred-of-you-what-a-delight-you-all).

_Jack stretched in the mid- morning sunlight, his back arching and the hard muscle of his belly flexing like it did when he came. Brock watched him through half-open eyes and waited, waited for—_

*

‘Rumlow? I said, is everything okay?’ Steve’s head was yanked back at an awkward angle. Rumlow’s hand was gripping his hair tightly, unevenly. On his knees on the floor, there wasn’t much Steve could do about it without losing a fistful of his hair. Rumlow jerked a little when Steve spoke.

‘What?’

‘You seem distracted tonight, is all.’ Steve chewed on his lip. ‘Is there something I can do?’

‘You can shut the fuck up,’ Rumlow said, and unzipped his jeans with his left hand. ‘You can make yourself useful.’ Rumlow was curt tonight, more so than usual. He gestured to his half-hard cock with one hand. ‘Come on.’ Steve wet his lower lip with his tongue. It was dark in his apartment. Rumlow had turned off most of the lights when he arrived. Sometimes he did that. Sometimes it was as if he didn’t want to see Steve at all.

‘I just think—’

‘Did I fucking ask for your opinion?’ Rumlow said, and pushed Steve’s face into his groin. Steve closed his eyes and opened his mouth.

*

_‘Good boy,’ said Jack as Brock crawled into the bedroom. It was hard, holding the paper bag in his mouth; it felt like it was going to fall apart at any moment, spit-wet and heavy with bagels and coffee. But Jack had told him to fetch, and he knew what fetch meant._

*

Steve moaned showily and took Rumlow all the way down.  Above him, Rumlow idly moved his hand in Steve’s hair, adjusting him. He wasn’t looking at Steve. Rumlow routinely drove across town, sometimes a couple of times a week, and in Steve’s apartment he would fuck Steve, or push Steve down onto his knees, or slap him with the back of his hand. Steve kept answering the texts. He kept opening the door for Rumlow. It kept happening. Steve kept begging for it to happen.

He choked a little, eyes watering, and his dick twitched when Rumlow glanced down at him for a moment.

*

_‘More?’ Jack asked, breaking off a piece of bagel and holding it out to Brock, without looking. His face was buried in a book. Jack liked to read with his breakfast and start his weekend off slowly. He liked breakfast in bed. Brock got his breakfast on the floor. He opened his mouth and took the bite of bread out of Jack’s fingers with his teeth, delicately, carefully, avoiding touching Jack. Jack brushed a few sesame seeds off his biography of General Patton and turned a page. Brock’s coffee grew cold, untouched._

*

Steve was so hard, God, he thought he was going to come on himself. It had happened once, his spunk spilling onto the floor as Rumlow fucked him on all fours. Rumlow had laughed disbelievingly and jerked off over the hardwood floor, too, and then pushed Steve’s face down into their mess. Told him to eat up. There was something about the way Rumlow switched off that got under Steve’s skin. He hated it, hated the thought that he was nothing but a hole for Rumlow to fuck and yet he knew that he would drag himself across the cold, slippery floor on his belly if he thought it would get Rumlow’s attention.

There was a trick with his tongue that Steve had worked out, a dirty little roll over Rumlow’s cockhead and then a long slide down to the back of his throat. Steve did it once, twice, then swallowed around Rumlow’s cock. Rumlow’s breathing was coming hard and his eyes were closed. He mouthed something to himself, silently shaping the words. Steve couldn’t tell what it was, quite, but he knew it wasn’t his own name. He rolled his tongue around again, tried harder.

*

_Jack’s eyes were sleepy-looking and hooded as he looked down at Brock, shifting on the floor. Brock wasn’t fooled for a second._

_‘Impatient this morning, aren’t you?’_

_Brock looks over at the clock. ‘Need to take a shower before I leave.’_

_‘Technically,’ Jack says, ‘you don’t need anything. Don’t give me that fucking bitch face. Don’t start with me today. Open your goddamn mouth and close your eyes so I don’t have to watch you roll ‘em.’ He rolled free of the covers and sat himself on the edge of the bed, naked and relaxed. He snapped his fingers; Brock shuffled forward and took Jack’s cock in his mouth. No hands; he wasn’t allowed to use his hands._

_Jack got it up fast and filled out Brock’s mouth until he started drooling. With both Jack’s hands twined in his hair, Brock could barely breathe, barely think. Once, Jack had hooked his leg around the back of Brock’s neck and fucked his throat, made him take it until he blacked out; Brock had swum back up to consciousness with the taste of spunk in his nose and mouth._

_Jack came with a grunt. Brock swallowed, opened his mouth and stuck his tongue out to prove it. Jack crooked a finger at him until he came close enough to kiss. A kiss from Jack was a rare pleasure, all soft, deep tonguing and a little nip at his lip for good measure. Brock melted into him, almost crawling up into his lap and Jack let him, because Brock had been good._

*

Rumlow moaned, a long exhale like relief. He came so far down Steve’s throat that Steve couldn’t taste it, wouldn’t have known if not for the way his cock jerked and his hand twisted in Steve’s hair. Usually Rumlow liked to make a mess of him, make him lick it up. This time he just jerked his hips, thrusting into Steve’s mouth punishingly hard. Steve’s jaw ached; his knees hurt. He wanted to touch himself.

‘Right,’ Rumlow panted, zipping himself up. ‘I’m off.’ He checked his watch.

‘But—’ Steve began, sweating, dick hard.

‘You got a right hand, kid,’ said Rumlow, opening the door, leaving it open so that anyone could look in. ‘Use it.’

*

_‘Off you go, then,’ said Jack, waving a dismissive hand. ‘Run along to your little toy. Be back by six. I got plans.’_


	18. Shell

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally posted [here](http://lingua-mortua.tumblr.com/post/128361784088/shell).

He ran Brock to ground in the husk of a building covered in fraying yellow caution tape and long-abandoned. Tracking him had been a year-long endeavour of hints, rumours, hunches and glimpses, of long days and motels and burner phones. Brock had been cagey like a feral cat, but in the privacy of the decaying retail block Jack had finally been allowed to approach him. After long minutes, he popped open his facemask. Jack schooled his face to neutrality.

He reached out and touched his fingertips to the ruin of Brock’s face, from the corners of his mouth to his chin and then along the sharp sweep of his jawline. He tucked his fingers in behind Brock’s jaw and stroked along his scarred cheekbones with his thumbs.

‘Look at me,’ he ordered, and Brock tilted his head a fraction and flicked up his brown eyes, grimacing and reluctant to meet Jack’s gaze. The scar tissue around his mouth pulled unevenly.

‘Drink it in,’ Brock said in a rasp. ‘Did I get what I deserved?’

‘Who did this to you?’ Jack said. ‘Tell me. I’ll rip their fucking heart out with my bare hands.’ Brock gave a high, crazed kind of laugh and tossed his head, bucking out of Jack’s grip.

‘SHIELD. Hydra. Wilson. Pierce. What’s it matter?’ He shrugged; the massive blue-black pauldrons whirred and clanked. His pupils, Jack saw now that he was in close, were hugely, unnaturally dilated. Jack recognised that peculiar blend of pre-battle alertness and erratic speech; the Asset had been the same way. It was the particular cocktail of drugs they used.

‘Where’s the suit release?’ Jack lifted a hand, waving vaguely, and Brock bristled, flinching back before Jack could touch him.

‘It’s too late,’ Brock said, showing his teeth. He rapped his gauntlet against his cross-marked chest piece. ‘It’s all wired in. All I have to do is get close to Cap and hit the red button.’ His wrecked skin could barely sweat, but he was damp along his hairline. Brock never sweated under pressure, before. Jack touched his index and middle fingers to the Glock on his hip and raised an enquiring eyebrow:  _ready weapon?_ Brock moaned in the back of his throat like a trapped animal. He was visibly skittish. His suit buzzed, some tiny mechanism up near the neck, and he flinched his head to the right. Jack stepped in slowly and saw the tiny pinprick, the bead of blood.

Brock calmed, slowed.

‘I want you to do it,’ said Brock, slurring his words a little but deliberate. ‘On my feet, like a man.’ Jack came in close, drew out his gun and slid the safety off.

‘Okay,’ said Jack, knowing, resigned. ‘Okay, easy. Easy.’ He rubbed his knuckles down Brock’s cheek, feeling Brock’s teeth grind and his jaw spasm. He closed Brock’s eyes for him with two fingers. The barrel of the gun fit snug under the edge of Brock’s jaw and he leaned into it. With the suppressor on it sounded like a car door slamming or a balloon popping. Nothing remarkable, from out on the street.

Jack left with Brock’s dog tags wrapped around his fingers, digging in tightly enough to hurt.


	19. First Love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An anonymous prompter asked for:  
> 
> 
> Written late at night; betaed by AgentMal to make sure I didn’t do the stupid things.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally posted [here](http://lingua-mortua.tumblr.com/post/128833016358/written-late-at-night-betaed-by-agentmal-to-make).

You clean paintbrushes with a firm hand up the bristles,  _no scrubbing around like a kid ‘cause that’s how you ruin good tools_. A turpentine-wet rag and a washed-out jamjar. One at a time, lay ‘em out on a bit of old sheet and let ‘em dry. There’s an order to the little chores, the tiny, procedural jobs that make up shop life.  _Keep the washers together in a coffee tin lid, boy, you’ll lose ‘em else._

*

Peanut butter on a wizened apple for breakfast; the trick is to eat the apple flesh then spoon the peanut butter onto the core. Makes it go a little further. Jack was never allowed off to school with his stomach growling, but he’s sixteen now, a man grown and in work, and the lie  _nah Mom I’m not hungry_ comes out easily.

*

It’s a beautiful, chrome-and-black, curved thing, nicer than anything they’ve had in before, and Jack gravitates towards it immediately. He’s not allowed to touch it yet, but he will be soon ‘cause they tell him he’s a quick study and responsible. Ike’s got a soft spot for him, so he lets him sit and watch how the brakes come apart when he’s supposed to be sweeping up. With rough, swollen hands, Ike strips her down and displays all her secret inner workings, her parts oil-slick with a dark, clinging smell.

*

 _He’s_  back, he’s fucking back, and Jack’s bigger than him now, taller and broader and he wants to kill him; it’s the only thing in his head as he dashes home with his left shoelace coming undone and his throat raw and dry, but when he opens the door his vision narrows down to her small and limp on the floor and there’s so much blood, too much blood, and Jack flings himself down on his knees on the sodden carpet and sobs when he feels a pulse weakly flickering at her neck.

*

It’s always ‘poor Debra’ or ‘that poor woman’ and Jack hates the pity of it. But Trey pats his shoulder and gives him the extra work, and Ike lets him lose himself in helping on a real beauty of a Harley, and he takes his pay home every week and she’s getting better, she is.

*

Three hundred and fifty dollars is a lot of money. Too much. Mom’s working a little again, so that helps, but the numbers don’t reckon even though they sit down at the kitchen table and she helps him work it out real careful.

He spends a day under a cloud about it and messes up an easy job so that Trey clips him around the head. Then the next day he says  _hey Ike you still need that old tree stump out_  and they go down his yard with shovels after work and dig and dig and dig. It’s dark when they finish and Jack’s hands are raw. Ike’s old lady gives him a big mug of coffee and a plate of ham and eggs and toast and Ike sends him off with a $10 bill;  _you’re a good lad, good just like your mom._

*

In two months he’s got $200 and they find the $150 and Brendan’s put the Honda 250 by for him ‘cause Trey said Jack’d be good for the cash. She’s red and white and she’s nine years old. Jack rides her home real careful with his mom on the back, clinging to him and shrieking on the corners.

*

He gets up at midnight and creeps out to look under the tarp, and again at half three, flicking on the ancient lightbulb to see the faded red and yellowed white.

*

 _He_  gets three years. The lawyer tried his best but  _you know these cases, Mrs Rollins, it’s all he said she said_. Mom says, o _h I don’t want any trouble, Mr Attersley, I don’t want any trouble and I’m very grateful for all you’ve done_. Jack’s not grateful and he does want trouble and he promises himself that wherever he is in three years he’ll bring his red motorcycle home and make sure  _he_  doesn’t come near her again.

*

There are so many parts - how did he not know that? He gets her all in pieces on the sheet, lined up all neat and counts ‘em, and counts ‘em again, and sits down on the floor in the little shed and has a little panic. Then he gets up and cleans ‘em all, ‘cause he knows how to do that, and he sees some bad bits, broken or rusted up, and takes ‘em into the shop to see Ike. He can name most all of ‘em and Ike says  _good, you’ve been paying attention_ , and it turns out nearly all of it’s fixable except for a long spring that Trey lets him replace out the parts box for five bucks.

*

For his 18th birthday his mom gives him a helmet, red and white, and he quietly takes the black paint back to the hardware store and says he changed his mind,  _yeah, I’m gonna keep it classic_. Trey and Ike get him a bit drunk on all-right beer and then that weekend they both come over and the three of them, they do the last little bit, the fiddly pinstripes and the neat folds of stitching on the seat.

*

 _You’ve raised a good man, here_ , Trey says, and his mom says,  _I know, I know_  and hugs him all tearful and embarrassing. Ike says  _keep your nose clean and come back to visit_ and Jack says  _yessir_  and they all shake hands. Jack means to be good and it’s eighteen months until he might have to be bad so he just doesn’t think about it. There’s a long Bowie knife and a baseball bat in his gear but he doesn’t have to look at them right now. It’s a final hug and then he pulls the choke, turns the key, takes off the killswitch and pushes the clutch in and the engine rumbles and he’s off, he’s gone, he’s outta there, he’s –


	20. Rumsey

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An anon sent me: So I'm watching Law and Order, and there is one character with the last name Rumsey, and I had to pause because I was laughing so hard because imagine Jack calling Brock Rumsey.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally posted [here](http://lingua-mortua.tumblr.com/post/129756712298/so-im-watching-law-and-order-and-there-is-one).

Jack’s got his number, the puffed-up little cockatoo; Rumlow preens and shows off and chirps about all his accomplishments until nobody around him could fail to know his life story, real or imagined. His bench press. His ex-girlfriend, an underwear model. His confirmed kills. It’s to be expected. He’s a kid, practically. But nobody gets very far in Hydra without learning to keep a fucking latch on it, so Jack takes it upon himself to teach that little object lesson.

After all, he’s been around longer. He knows the drill.

‘Hey, Rimlow,’ he says, snapping his fingers. ‘Quit staring at yourself in the mirror, we’ll be late for drill.’

‘Rimlow?’ asks the kid, with a look of disgust on his pretty face. ‘It’s Rumlow. Jesus. Rimlow sounds like rim job.’ A ripple of laughter goes around the barracks, and Rumlow flushes. Jack tries not to laugh out loud, too, but it’s hard when he knows that 99% of the facility will be calling the kid ‘rim job’ by tomorrow.

Two days later, they’re double-timing around the grounds, puffing and sweating and all of them, to a man, trying not to be last.

‘Step it up, Rowling,’ Jack manages to say, putting on a burst of speed to overtake Rumlow. Jack’s legs are longer, which carries him along sharply, but he’s got to pace himself for the middle distance runs. So he’s not too far away to hear Brock’s pained hiss.

‘That’s the Harry Potter woman,’ he pants, and flails along in Jack’s wake, trying impotently to struggle to the front of the pack. (They all take a week long break from calling him ‘rim job’ and call him Hermione instead.)

Rumlow doesn’t exactly forgive them - he’s a prickly little customer - but he simmers down enough by the end of the next week. He’s almost friendly towards Jack, and then Jack’s spotting him in the gym, and he leans over so the kid can see his upside down grin and says, ‘Good work, Russo. Two more to go!’ Rumlow splutters and loses focus and almost drops the bar on his face, and Jack catches it and laughs, and laughs.

‘You’re a fucking asshole,’ Rumlow tells him later when they meet in the hallway, Jack strolling off to the canteen and Rumlow already finished. His venom would be more convincing if he didn’t have a smudge of ketchup on his chin, but Jack lets it go, for now.

‘I know,’ Jack says, with a grin. ‘I know, but here’s the thing, Rumsey - I don’t give a shit.’


	21. Coda to 'playing house'

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is a coda to brawlite's wonderful [playing house](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4867439), written at their totally unsubtle hinting :)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally posted [here](http://lingua-mortua.tumblr.com/post/129827136748/playing-house-brawlite).

The hardwood floors. Christ. Jack would get down on his hands and knees and stain them all over again with a toothbrush if it meant getting to watch Brock like this. See, the sun’s going down and the floors are glowing rich and warm in the autumn light, and Brock’s spread out on his back with his arms flung above his head and one knee turned out. He’s smooth and tanned and relaxed, cat-like, graceful. He should be drawn, or sculpted, which Jack might do if he knew anything about anything, art or some shit. Jack’s paused in the middle of kissing Brock senseless just to look at him. Brock closes his eyes all lazy, and arches his back in a coy little stretch that has nothing to do with tight muscles and everything to do with how fucking weak it makes Jack.

‘You gonna sit there all night?’ Brock goads. ‘Do I have to get myself off?’

‘Just looking,’ Jack says, low and husky, and he crawls up over the red and grey plaid of the blanket that’s rucked up under Brock, licking the inside of his thigh to make him twitch. Brock’s cock is hard and flushed. Jack wants it, but it’s not the game. The game is a sucking kiss to Brock’s hip, a long scratch down his ribs and a sharp bite to his nipple. It’s mouthing at his throat without Jack letting his body rub up against Brock’s; it’s tongue-fucking his mouth, grabbing at his wrists.

Brock gets real relaxed after Jack mauls him about a bit. So Jack does. He holds him down, makes him accept that he’s not going anywhere. He pins Brock’s legs with his shin so that he wriggles and grunts and play fights, and then gives up and tries to get Jack to kiss him again without asking for it. (As if walking around the house shirtless isn’t asking for it. As if sucking at his beer bottle, or bending over to pick up a magazine, or spending half an hour on his hair in the morning isn’t asking for it. As if Brock doesn’t spend half his life figuring out cute ways to get fucked without coming out and saying hey, Jack, stick it up my ass, I’m into that.)

‘Come on,’ says Brock, urgently. He talks against Jack’s mouth, eyes closed, like that makes it not count as begging. Jack eases up on his legs and the blood rushes to one foot. He shakes it out with a curse, and the blanket shifts; Brock chuckles. Just for that Jack slaps him on the flank. Brock groans and lifts his leg, puts his foot flat on the floor and tries to press up into Jack. His ass comes right off the floor. He’s really wanting it, and so’s Jack, so Jack tips his hips and lines up.

He rests the head of his cock against Brock’s ass, which is slick and open because he can’t make out with Brock on the couch for five minutes before Brock stretches for the lube and sticks his wet fingers down the back of his boxers like he’s paying by the minute. When he presses forward, it’s slow, slow and sweet and if it’s torture for Brock, it’s agony for Jack. His fucking knees, on the floor, for starters, but also the desire, bubbling under his skin, to grab Brock by the throat and fuck him until his eyes roll back and he comes on himself like a teenager. It takes Jack that way, sometimes. Usually Brock’s got to be a little drunk for it, like he can’t quite take it sober; there’s some mental thing there, some weird block.

‘Come on,’ Brock says again, so Jack fucks him, easy at first and then more, and deeper, in smooth, long rolls that make Brock lift his hips up, chasing the drag of Jack’s cock in him. Brock’s scrabbling at Jack’s forearms, his thighs, and then he’s jerking himself off. Brock grits his teeth when he jerks off, and squeezes his eyes closed. It’s almost a look of pain. It sends Jack right over the edge, the way he looks like he’s fighting it, the way his neck muscles cord and he makes strained, whimpering noises through his noise.

‘Fuck,’ Jack says unimaginatively when he comes. ‘Fuuuck.’ He comes in a sudden rush, loses his rhythm and grabs at Brock’s hip and buries his face in Brock’s chest for a brief, sweaty, blissful moment. And then Brock’s shuddering too, and gasping, and his come spills between them and he dissolves down onto the floor, his arms flung over his head again.

They rest for a minute without moving, even though Jack’s legs are screaming at him. The light’s almost gone, but Brock’s face against the floor still picks up the red, the amber, the rich wood tones. Jack doesn’t say anything about it. He does let Brock have the shower first, though, and he makes coffee for them both, which he figures is kind of the same thing.


	22. Fight Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This one’s for trillgutterbug, after our twink Rumlow chat the other night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally posted [here](http://lingua-mortua.tumblr.com/post/132655912518/fight-me).

Jack’s hand was around Brock’s throat. One of Jack’s big hands was around his throat, gun callouses rough on his skin and thumb tucked up under his right ear. It should have frightened Brock. This should have been game over, caught at last, but he found himself melting backwards against Jack’s chest, ignoring how tightly Jack was holding his left bicep. Brock went up on his tiptoes and tipped his head back, submissive like a wolf cub just learning how to fight. He rested his head on Jack’s shoulder and arched his back, pushing his chest out. His mouth fell open and he looked up through his lashes, expectant, almost pleading.

‘Be careful, kid,’ said Jack, pulling up on his throat and making Brock stretch up, up. The edges of his vision started to blur. Brock held out for as long as he could, until he was almost drowning in a sweet, heady desperation, his pulse pounding under Jack’s hard fingers.

Brock pulled forward his right elbow and slammed it into Jack’s solar plexus. Jack doubled up, choking out a laugh and then they were off again - Brock bolting for the stairs and Jack following him with his breath rasping.

Brock had made the mistake of dashing upstairs, first off. Jack had ambushed him when he walked through the kitchen door and Brock had sought the high ground like a scared cat. He’d paid for that mistake in the second bedroom, where Jack had run him to ground and flipped him easily in a slick judo move that left Brock winded and gasping on the floor. But now Jack was the one struggling for breath and Brock knew now - speed, it was speed, he had to outrun and outmanoeuvre.

He took a sharp turn at the bottom of the stairs, feinting towards the front door; Jack, bigger and slower, checked the wall with his shoulder and lost a precious second. A dash through the kitchen and out through the back door and Brock was free, sprinting through the overgrown back yard and vaulting the fence. He swung back around the side of the house, jogging easily back along the sidewalk to the front gate. Back in through the front door, buzzed from his quick escape.

He never saw Jack slip a foot in front of his ankles and trip him. The floor came up to meet him and Jack’s weight landed on his hips.

‘Conniving little puppy,’ said Jack in a low, dark voice. He nipped at the nape of Brock’s neck and Brock heard himself moan, raw and shameless. ‘Can’t use those tricks in the field. Some scary baddie gets you by the throat, licking your cocksucking lips won’t help you.’ Brock squirmed under him.

‘You know,’ he panted against Jack’s weight. ‘You know what happens when you-’

‘When I choke you?’ Jack chuckled. ‘Yeah, I do. Don’t mean someone won’t try it on you when it’s life or death.’

‘Cheat,’ Brock accused him, ineffectually kicking out with one leg. He was colouring up pink, warm and frustrated. Jack slapped a restraining palm between his shoulderblades. He reached around with his other hand, popped open Brock’s jeans and tugged them down over the olive swell of his ass. Brock gave a little snarl.

‘Yeah,’ Jack laughed, giving his ass a hard, quick slap. ‘That’s cute.’

‘You’re such,’ gasped Brock, wriggling, ‘you’re such a - oh -’

‘Use your words,’ said Jack, rubbing his cock up against Brock’s ass. He shifted his hands, leaning down on Brock’s shoulders. Pinned, Brock could only kick and curse, tossing his head. ‘C’mon. C’mon. Tap out if you don’t wanna play any more.’ Brock would rather let Jack choke him unconscious, break an arm or bite clean through his skin than tap out, concede the fight. He growled, bared his teeth. He didn’t tap out.

Jack spat, unnecessarily; Brock was still wet and fucked-out from the morning, but Jack liked the mess and the charade. He lined himself up and pushed down inside Brock in one long side. Brock cried out sharp and high into the floor, and higher when Jack started fucking him, and over and over again with every thrust and bite, every scrape of his face against the carpet. He twisted and arched in Jack’s grip.

‘Fuck you,’ he managed to say, meaning it and not meaning it. He was burning up, overheated and feeling the friction from the carpet on his bare skin.

‘Fight me,’ Jack laughed, and didn’t stop.


	23. For Trebeka

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written for trebeka's birthday.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally posted [here](http://lingua-mortua.tumblr.com/post/132960099748/did-i-see-in-a-tag-that-its-your-birthday-today).

Jack drummed his fingers on the counter as the harried shopgirl rummaged for a plastic bag. She was young; looked new here. Skittish. She’d flinched at the scar down his face, and the way his left fingers were taped up and bruised.

‘Oh no,’ she said eventually. ‘I don’t think we have any of the small ones left. Let me go check the back.’ Jack waved his hand vaguely. Fine. What was supposed to have been a quick, clandestine lunchtime outing was turning into something that would be harder to explain.

At length, the girl came scurrying back on the heels of a supervisor, a middle-aged woman with an air of calm competence.

‘So sorry for the delay,’ she said smoothly, tucking herself in behind the counter. ‘She’s still learning.’ She slid open a drawer and brought out a plastic bag. With deft hands, she packed up his purchases - a permanent marker, some neon pink duct tape, candles, a silver bow for a gift. ‘A special someone’s birthday?’

‘Something like that,’ Jack said neutrally, as he swiped his credit card. ‘Party games.’

‘Well,’ said the supervisor, ‘I hope you have a lot of fun.’

‘I will,’ Jack told her, letting himself grin in a particularly gleeful way. The polite smile slid sideways off the supervisor’s face.

Next stop: the hardware store.


End file.
